blessings from my taxi driver

People tend to think of God at three moments in their lives: birth, death, and marriage. I've seen births, I've seen deaths, and I've been to weddings, and yet, still, the only time I think of God is when I ride in a New York City yellow cab.

A few weeks ago, I took a cab to Vin's place. I was in pain underneath the weight of all of my textbooks, all hardcover, all maroon, and all stamped in gold, in an almost imperious, abrasive, unsettling gold. I hailed a cab with my left foot, and one screeched to a halt. I threw my books inside, dove in headfirst (unnecessarily), and yelped, "61st and York." As he was about to leave, I yelled out. "Wait! I think I left something in the vestibule." He hesitated, and then laughed, "I don't mind, I get good tip." I ran back to my apartment, found nothing, and ran back outside.

I sat back inside, letting the ripped, cheap leather and the soft, incomprehensible murmur of someone on his cellphone envelop and immobilize me. I stared outside, watching the city lights blur past me. I thought of my insurmountable amount of homework. I thought of my lost writing dreams and I thought of my friends, and how much I would miss them next year. I thought of how soon my entire life would change. I thought of wedding planning, of the great offense Indian guests take when, well, anything happens, and of the beauty that is in a large family coming together and celebrating you. I thought of my parents' expectations of me, I thought of my parents'  incredible spirit and energy. I thought of how, no matter how liberal or progressive people characterize themselves on Facebook, that at certain points in a woman's life - birth, death, marriage - society bears down upon her with a scrutinizing eye. I thought of Vin, I thought of our busy lives, and I thought of how I had not seen him alone, in silence, for weeks, maybe even a month.

And then I started silently crying in the backseat. 

The driver was off the phone. "So, where you from?"

I knew he wasn't talking about New Jersey. "India," I replied. "I am Gujarati." He asked me if I could speak Hindi, and I told him I understood it perfectly, so he could speak to me in Hindi if he didn't mind that I responded in a very English heavy version of Hinglish.

He was thrilled. He asked what I was studying, if I was married, where my parents were. A sudden anxiety washed over me. "I'm engaged, and I am in law school."

He started, and became very serious. "Beta, that's so wonderful. Please keep studying. Focus on school and grow. Nothing else is important. I hope you are not distracted by all small-small things. We need people like you in the law, beta. You can help us one day. I hope that the next time I see you, it will be on the Supreme Court. Beta, you will be a great lawyer, in the Supreme Court."

I smiled. "Thank you so much." He shook his head. It was nothing, he was just telling me the truth, and he wanted to know I had his blessings and he would pray for me. I wanted to reach out, through the dirty, plastic barrier that divided us, and put my hand on his shoulder, but the cab abruptly stopped in front of Vin's place, and I was jerked back into reality - a reality where it is not OK to touch an uncle's shoulder. I walked to Vin's apartment with my head held high, acknowledging all the sacrifices everyone had made for me to get to where I am. Before Vin opened the door, I closed my eyes, and for one very long, very heavy moment, I prayed to God that he give that cab driver all the happiness in the world. 

Today, I was walking from far uptown to go to school. It was a complicated walk - the Pope is in town and streets are arbitrarily closed off (in the name of ceremony, perhaps). After the second time I was redirected down the street, my shoe broke in the middle of the crosswalk. I certainly couldn't walk to school, and so hailed another cab. An older man with kind eyes and a turban pulled over. I got in and told him the law school's address. "Wait, Washington Square Park and Macdougal is the school, right beta?" I nodded. I told him I would have normally walked, and I stuck my foot out and showed him my broken shoe. He looked at me intently in the rearview mirror.

"Beta, you would have walked from here all the way down?" I assumed he was about to lecture me on how I am too frail. "That makes me so happy, beta. That is one and one half hours! Walking at your age is so good for you. People here, they don't walk, they take taxis." When I told him I was Gujarati, he exclaimed, "Oh! That's why you walk so much, beta. Very good, very good."

I got excited. "Yea! And it's good for the environment. And those subway prices are so expensive, too, right, uncle?"

He agreed. And then he asked me how old I was, expressed surprise that I was 26 (he said I looked like his 18 year old niece from Buffalo), and asked me about my parents. He asked if I spoke Hindi, and I told him what I told the other taxi driver. He told me he had been in America since 1988, the year I was born. 

I told him palak paneer was my favorite food, and that I wished I was from Amritsar, where he was from, so I could eat palak paneer for breakfast instead of dhoklas (which I don't eat for breakfast anyways). I asked him if he frequented the Punjabi deli on Second Avenue, and he told me he preferred the one on Houston and Avenue A and the one on Ninth Avenue and 21st Street. He said they had more vegetarian options, since the one I'd mentioned was Pakistani. 

As I left the cab, he told me I had his blessings. He said, "By grace of God, maybe I will pick you up in a taxi again someday, beta. So nice to meet you." I smiled. "I will see you at the Punjabi deli, uncle." He shook his head, in that ambiguous way that all Indians shake their heads - not saying no because they still have hope, but not saying yes because they recognize reality. I shut the door, and he quickly rolled down the window and said, "Beta, say hi to your parents for me."

"I will, uncle," I said, and I limped off with my one shoe, praying for him and his family, and thanking God that I met such goodness this morning.

One Story

I have always liked the idea of one. One favorite flavor of ice cream. One language spoken at home. One homeland.

It's a nice idea, but unattainable.

Tonight, the Islamic Center at NYU sponsored Aasif Mandvi, the tragically humorous, unheroic hero of voiceless, confused, hybridized browns. He read two stories from his new book, No Land's Man. The first story was about the way in which he tried to fit in at his high school in Florida, as a new transplant from England, where he had moved from his Bohra community in Mumbai. I almost thought he was reading back to me my life story; it was a story about youth and discovery and sky blue Volkswagens, not a particularized story about a larger, mythicized "Muslim American identity." The second story was about the trajectory of his inspiring and impactful career.

He then engaged the students - who came from all over NYU - in a thoughtful Q & A. People asked funny questions about light moments in the stories and for advice as Muslim artists and writers. People posed profound questions about race and religion and multiculturalism. He was asked about his perspective on the Broadway play "Disgraced," in which he played the role of Amir. In response to a student expressing her dismay and discomfort about the play's conclusion, which she said extended stereotypes to modernized/westernized/Muslims, he said that the playwright, Ayad Akhtar, was not trying to speak for all Muslims. Rather, he was just telling his story - what he was feeling, how he saw the world, how he saw Amir. It was not a political message, not a sermon. It was not his duty as a Muslim or Muslim American or American to spread awareness about his "cause" or "group." It was just one story. It was his story.

No matter how hard I try to fit my story into a neat package - a package of Indian American or American Indian or New York City or Law Student or Ridgewood or Woman - I can never get it to really stick. I do not adequately represent any one thing or any one person. Mandvi advised a student about this constant tension, that nauseating, irritating, gnawing sensation we have lived with in seeking to define ourselves. He said, "Your multiplicity is your source of power."

I will never have just one. I like Bailey's ice cream and mint chocolate chip ice cream. My mother blesses me in Gujarati and my father praises me in English. The boundaries of my homeland begin in Ahmedabad and end in New York City. Amid the versatility and the colors and the languages and the insecurities and the tragedies and the bounty, there is not one of anything - except, perhaps, one story. My story.

New York, you make my heart feel full.

I fell in love with New York all over again this weekend. As more of my friends and loves grow up, grow fast, and grow out of this beautiful island, I find myself fervently defending the one place that has always been good to me, that still nurtures and teaches me, that still cherishes me, as if it's still the first three months of our relationship, not the first seven years.

This weekend was the first in almost two months that Vin and I could explore our city--without phones, impending deadlines, or any thoughts at all, actually. My mind was finally blank, and I wanted to go to Brooklyn.

I had not been to DUMBO in years. In college, Manu and I used to eat spoonfuls of Nutella on the rocks looking out over the East River, giggling about all of the nothingness. Now, Vin and I took the A to High Street, and I immediately felt transported to seven years ago. I directed him down towards the river, and walked by construction enclosed by artistic pictures with captions that made no sense. It was lovely.

This caption was for an unrelated picture. We decided to justify it.

While blank and blissful, we were also desperately hungry. We decided to turn left, to Gran Electria, so that I could finally cross it off my bucket list. We walked past the bar in the front and through the small dining area in the back, amid the quirky black and white wallpaper, and into a beautiful garden, outlined by a string of lights. Couples were sitting on the same sides of tables, hand in hand, and waiters of all genders were wearing incredibly short shorts. The brown paper menus explained the various local farms and vineyards from where the organic ingredients were hauled. I smiled. We were in Brooklyn.

I am not proud of taking pictures at lunch. But, I did.

The drinks were made with fresh, whole, colorful ingredients--entire jalapeños, cold cucumbers, bright red pepper--creating exciting, earthy flavors that turned our drinks into true bebidas.

We ordered the setas quesadillas with quesillo cheese and oyster mushrooms (another thing I've fallen for over the last year and a half), and I got the rajas tacos.

Everything was clean, and delicious.

After lunch, we headed back down towards the river. We walked by the long Grimaldi's line, snickering at the visor toting tourists who waited on this excessive queue, secretly wishing we had the courage to do the same. I then wanted to ride the merry go round by the river with the other kids, but the line was just as long as the one for pizza,  and we instead walked to the water and watched the boats and the dozens of wedding parties posing for East River photo shoots.

Vin wanted dessert. We ventured towards the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory, where we met yet another line. "What is everyone doing on line?" Vin shrieked in desperation (he has a sweet tooth). Though the afternoon had been filled lots of lines and lots of waiting, I felt actually grateful for a prolonged quietude. It was our last summer weekend together, and I had become incredibly sad.

But Vin was thinking about cookies. "Let's Yelp this." And then he listed the various places we could walk to for dessert. We got one thick, creamy hot chocolate from Jacques Torres to share, and then walked through Almondine and One Girl Cookies to make sure that we didn't want (or couldn't stomach) anything else. We sat on a bench, staring at more wedding parties (specifically, at brides in bedazzled, hot pink wedding dresses) taking pictures on the cobbled streets in front of Galapagos, and noticed a dark green, fully functioning trolley, with tracks that literally led to nowhere. We didn't question it. We smiled. It was Brooklyn.

After dessert, we wanted appetizers. We saw a chalkboard sign for $1 oysters at the cafe next door, Atrium, and swiftly welcomed ourselves. We ordered more bebidas, potions comprising ingredients we had never before heard of (what the hell is velvet falernum?). We also ordered a side of roasted kale (Brooklyn delicacy) and potato bread that was so hot that it steamed (and burned tongues) when we sliced it open.

We walked back towards the East River Promenade, where Vin got excited by a poster advertising a pool. He had actually been wearing neon pink swim shorts all day, instead of pants, since our weekend plans initially involved the beach. He looked at his pink shorts and then to me, in anguish. "I could have totally gone swimming today. Let's go see this pool."

And so, we walked through the entire promenade, by the construction of the new apartment complex, the roller rink, kids racing on scooters, and the many bright wildflowers and posies and petunias that littered the edges of the walkway, flush against the horizon. Vin walked on towards the pool, and I sat down on the ledge, staring into the glowing sky.

Summer was coming to a close. We could not find the pool, and the sun was soon setting.

We had to get back to Manhattan. Of course, the freest way to do so was walking the Brooklyn Bridge, and so, like I first did when I was 18, we strolled across the bridge, bumping into tourists posing for selfies and cyclists trying to kill everyone. We left our day in Brooklyn behind us.

On the other side, we ventured to Beekman Beer Garden, through an outdoor movie in a brick alley, only to find the garden had closed, permanently. Nervous about ending the night, we decided to watch The Most Wanted Man, feeling as though a celebration of one of our greatest artists was the only other activity befitting of such an evening. We waited for the movie at the nearby Pierre Loti, where we tried their famous haydari with warm pita (and loved it). And then we went to the theater, where a satisfied Vin fell asleep with his mouth open, and I discovered old gummy bears in my purse (win-win!). The film was tragic.

And our summer officially ended.

In his latest memoir, Joseph Anton, Salman Rushdie explains that the questions of life he knows how to answer are only those of love: "Who do you love? What can you leave behind, and what do you need to hold on to? Where does your heart feel full?"

For me, the answer is, and always has been, and always will be, New York City.

Though, someone who crosses the Brooklyn Bridge with me, hand in hand, into the sunset, in utter silence, is a close second.

good bye, summer.

My Mother's Daughter

When my mother was 25, she had already had her first daughter--a shrill-voiced, underweight one-year old, who was desperately attached to her. Together, they explored a new city, Delhi, traversing the paved and not-so paved roads in search for nothing else but ice cream, because in each other they had found the whole world.

24 years and several cities (and countries) later, I find myself in the same position. My voice is embarrassingly high-pitched, and my partner even finds my bony shoulders too fragile (read: "creepy") to touch. And, still, when I'm with my mother, I have everything.

As a transplant from another country,  I have struggled much of my childhood to find solace. I felt compelled to construct an identity that was digestible--a Hindu, an Indian, an American, an Atheist, a hipster, a conservative, and, my least favorite, the exotic girl (both in "Indian" and "American" circles). I was none of the above. Rather, I was in a state of constant recalibration, determined to figure out how to present myself, not only to the world, but to me. The only place in which I found a sense of home was in my mother. Her stories, her wisdom, her raw and authentic and brilliant sense of humor transcended the stark lines in which I was trying to color myself. My identity was simple, clear: I was my mother's daughter.

As I grew older, however, I thought to craft my identity against that of my mother. Unguided, lost, I began to reject much of which she taught me. I rejected the sciences, convinced myself I was bad at math, had boyfriends, had my heart broken. I wanted to be a world famous journalist. I told her I did not believe in marriage, that my husband would be a renowned chef so I didn't have to spend my time cooking (yes, ironically, those two ideas in the same breath--I might also add I rejected her sense of logic). I wanted to model, to act, to dance. I did not want to have children at 24 (and that ship has sailed now anyways).

And, the worst part of it was, she fully supported me in everything I did. As long as I was happy, she would say, she supported me 100%. My need to create my own self, in the interstices of what she had instilled in me, could only ever be superficial--there was nothing I did that was not inevitably a byproduct of my mother. My dreams, my restless need for adventure, my rejection of convention (if worth rejecting)--though she might not even realize it-- comes from her.

Through the years, I have also found her to be absolutely correct about, well, everything. She grounded my restlessness, stilled my racing mind. I sometimes find myself still seeking her approval, even when she is not around. I find myself excited to make Vin dinner, eager to decorate my new home, motivated not to just do well in law school, but to make it the best three years of my life. The older I get, I feel myself growing--not up, but into, into a woman who found joy in her family, in her home, and who did her work not out of obligation, but out of love for everything she ever did.

I can only hope to grow into the woman who not only gave me life, but taught me how to live it.

I am my mother's daughter, and nothing else.